The Letters
by DiMick
Summary: So this is an amalgam of 3 stories from Tumblr: The Letter; The Reply and the Letter that Ruined Everything. Kate writes a letter to Gladys, and the reply she gets is not at all what she's expecting. Uploaded from Tumblr by request.
1. Chapter 1

Gladys,

I'm sorry for writing out of the blue like this, after all this time, but I don't have anyone, really, to talk to, and I thought you'd understand.

Today, from the other end of the street, I caught sight of a familiar head of hair, crossing the road in front of us. Involuntarily, I shrank back, heart beating triple time, pulling myself into the shadows of a shop window. Michael, oblivious, carried on a few steps then returned, a puzzled look on his face. Perhaps I should explain who Michael is. No, he's not one of my brothers – he's my fiancé, a young pastor at my father's new church. We met eight months ago now, after we moved up here away from the city. He is a good upstanding Christian man, and I know that I am lucky to have him. When we are together, he is a perfect gentleman, and is very attentive. His sermons and speeches are always well pitched, and draw lots of praise from the congregation and my father. I think that this must be love, for I have never been able to imagine myself anyone's wife before.

I had always imagined love to be wilder than this, less controlled, somehow. I watched all those films with you, and imagined love would set my blood on fire – that was the phrase I used – that it would be full of large gestures and declarations, that my heart would pound, I'd feel faint and giddy, that every moment apart would be agony. The closest I ever got I know, now, that that feeling is lust, and infatuation. I know with Michael, that I will be cared for, looked after, that I will never have to work again, even though I often sometimes miss our factory shifts. Is that how it is with you and James? Do I sound in love to you? I have never been in love before. I have had so little experience with this kind of thing, I doubt myself.

"Marion," he said, "is everything alright?" Marion's my name now. Well, it always was – Kate Andrews was a name from a book my mother read once. I still turn around when someone in the street calls out Kate – it's an odd feeling, like somehow I'm two separate people. That sounds mad, doesn't it? Sometimes, I think I must be – the things I imagine and dream are so strange.

I looked once again, and saw that she had gone. Linking my arm through Michael's, we set off once again down the street. "It's alright," I said, after a few yards, "I just thought I saw someone I used to know." He craned his head around, trying to spot who I meant. "Michael," I hissed. "Don't do that. It wasn't even her." And yet, even as I spoke, I knew, with certainty and conviction, that it had been. I'd know that profile, that strut and swing, anywhere. You understand, it's distinctive.

Michael frowned down at me, his handsome features pulled into a frown. "If you know her, why hide in the window display? Why not say hi?" His face moved as he talked, cringing as he described me hiding, waving on the hi. I can see why the congregation like him, I thought. Charming, expressive and handsome – half the girls there are in love with him. But, somehow, I'm the one he picked. We've gone steady now for as long as I was at the factory, and have been engaged for four whole months. The ring, his grandmother's, still weighs heavily on my hand, and sometimes, although I know I probably shouldn't say this, I take it off and leave it off, getting through my daily jobs without its golden burden. Once, I forgot to put it back on, and that caused a fuss at home. My father, surprisingly, is keen for the wedding. Perhaps he thinks it will relieve him of the responsibility for my sins. When I first got home, you know, he watched me so closely, to see the sins I had developed up close.

We walked gently home, me in quiet thought, and settled around the table for Sunday dinner. My mother had cooked lamb – an extravagance put on for Michael's benefit. As my father carved, after our devotions, Michael brought up my unexpected sighting.

"Marion spotted someone today, an old acquaintance. But do you know what she did? Instead of saying hullo, she actively hid!" He looked around him, surprised eyebrows raised high on his head, searching for support from my parents.

"Was it one of the Thornes?" my father asked, his voice light. "I know they're moving up this way soon." I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry, and my lack of answer stilled the knives in his hands as he looked at me expectantly. I shook my head.

"No, one of the factory girls." I would have been content to leave it there, but Michael, thinking it just sport, would not let it lie.

"That Gladys, I suppose," he said, "who we've all heard so much about." I shook my head, again.

"No. Her name's Betty." I saw, from the corner of my eye, my mother's eyes slip uncontrolled to my father, who continued to steadily carve. I drank my water, hoping that someone would change the subject, let my encounter drop. No-one spoke up, until Michael questioned me again on why I'd hidden instead of re-introducing myself. After all, he said, I could use more friends around here. "We didn't part on good terms," I told him. It's the truth, isn't it? I bet she hates me, still. I know that I have not forgiven, and I know too that she has not the moral imperative that I do. Does she hate me? Don't answer that.

Anyway. Enough of that train of thought. The conversation moved on, as these things do, and everybody but me forgot about it. It's been on my mind all night, and so I had to sit and get some of this stuff out of my head, and onto paper. What I want to know, Gladys, is why was she here, and not in Toronto?

I hope you're well. Please forgive my blots and scribblings out and terrible handwriting, this is a very old pen. Give my love to James and everyone,

Marion

(Kate)

-x-

Tell her I'm sorry


	2. Chapter 2

A few days after posting her letter, Marion woke up to find a reply pushed inside the mailbox outside the trailer. Waiting till it was dark, she sat in bed, and read.

Dear Kate,

How good to hear from you, and how unexpected. Things are well with us all here at VicMu. Not much has changed – Lorna Corbett has gone, and we've got some new girls, but we're still rolling out the bombs for our boys.

Betty doesn't hate you, she never has. I think she might hate herself. She says to say that there's no need to say sorry – nothing to forgive! We miss you. As to why she was up with you – she's taken to travelling about at weekends this year. Hopping on trains and exploring. Anywhere away from the coast, you know. Stops her being bored and boring, she says. If you want me to, I can tell her to stay away from your new place, she'll understand, but I really don't think you need worry. If you don't want her to find you, she won't. You know her well enough to realize that, I think.

Michael sounds swell, a real keeper! It's always great when your family likes your beau – Congratulations on your engagement! It's odd to think you're no longer Kate Andrews, and will be changing names again soon. I confess, you'll always be Kate to me.

I can't tell you whether you're in love, and I shouldn't, even if I was able. When I'm in love, I think about them all the time, plan various future lives together, imagine 100 times a day new ways to make it obvious. And yes, that heart racing, blood pumping, sweaty palm feeling is part of it, but not all. The main bit to get right, I think, is being on the same level, knowing what the other needs, and be willing and able to give it. You want a communication of souls, as well as the physical stuff. But that's just me – I'm a terrible old romantic at heart. There's all kinds of love in the world, and what you feel might not be what I feel, but it still can be love.

I had friend, recently, who lost the love of her life. Now some people, they'd cry and scream and not get out of bed for a month. If something happened to James, that's what would happen. But my friend just got up the next morning and went to work, battered and bruised but carrying on. Did she love any less, was she any less heartbroken? No, and, in the end, she'll be alright. She's that kinda gal. So if you think you're in love, you are, and good luck with it.

If you ever wanna come and see us hacking canaries, there's always a place to stay. I must rush – lunch break is almost over.

Love always,

G -x-

Kate read, and reread the letter. Despite the closing line, it didn't look as if it had been dashed off in a hurry – the penmanship was neat, no scribbles, crossings out, or blots, as though its author had taken great care over this, their final draft. The handwriting was less elaborate than Kate had always imagined Gladys' to be, solid and upright, with no swirls or curls or slants. When Kate looked closer, it seemed to her that the signature, and the address on the envelope, was in a different hand, less practical, and more flamboyant. She knew, then, who had written the letter. After all, the style was distinctive. Kate read the letter, for a third time, and cried.


	3. Chapter 3

In the days following the letter, Kate replayed it over in her mind. She had it tightly folded and hidden away down inside her bra, pressed tight against her skin, safe from prying eyes. How could she reply? What would she say – should she pretend the letter was from Gladys, and write to her, or should she acknowledge the author, expose the kind pretence and protective lies? Either way, what news did she have to share? The subject of Michael's latest sermon, the new hymn part she was learning, the fact she'd burnt the dinner again – all seemed so small compared to the lives her friends were leading in the big city. And yet, she was desperate to answer – to reply to the reply – one as full of hidden reassurances and sympathy and love as the one she'd received. While Kate pondered, the days and weeks passed, and the time since the letter arrived stretched out. I can't write now, she thought, I've been too long silent, waited until it was too late. To write now, like the letter came yesterday, would be rude, worse than not writing at all. And so Kate carried the letter with her, next to her heart, and carried on with the processes of daily life.

By the time Michael suggested a pre-wedding trip to Toronto to shop for wedding dresses and to see his grandmother, the letter had been inside Kate's dress for six months, and she could come up with no valid reason not to go.

Dinner at his grandmother's was unlike anything Kate had ever experienced. The room, which was actually large, was packed all along the sides with stuff – furniture and clothes, pictures and paintings piled high, a record player and records in one corner. In the middle of the room a large oak dining table sat, with sixteen chairs crammed around it, each one filled with another of Michael's adult relations. The children sat on a table of their in the kitchen, and occasionally their raucous squawks would filter up the corridor, to be met with a bellowed hush from one of their parents. It was so unlike Kate's own family, with their reverential silence, broken only by her father saying grace and the sound of cutlery on the plates.

Much of the attention was focused on Michael's cousin Matthew, an airman with the Royal Canadian Air Force, home on leave from Europe. The family asked him all kinds of questions, so many Kate could hardly get a word in edgeways. It was a little intimidating, and Kate felt small and awkward, when a hand landed on her leg beneath the table. She looked at Michael and he smiled. "Alright?" he whispered, leaning towards her. "I know they're a bit much, all at once, but don't worry – you're doing fine." As he spoke, his tie fell forward into his gravy, pulling the family's attention off their war hero and onto the blushing pastor and his girlfriend.

"Tell you what," said Matthew after dinner had been tidied away, punching Michael lightly in the arm, "While you're here and not out in the sticks, why not have a little fun? Listen to some music, that kinda thing. I know a great little place." While her fiancé nodded enthusiastically, Kate worried. What if she saw someone she'd rather not? How could she talk to Leon or Gladys, knowing she'd left without a word. How could she talk to Betty, with her letter held against her breast. Michael saw her discomfort, her fidgeting, and leaned over.

"Come on, Marion," he whispered, "Let's give him what he wants. This might be his last leave, after all." The argument was hard to deny, and anyway, Kate thought, there are hundreds of jazz bars in the city. The chances of bumping into anyone she knew were remote, at best.

Her confidence began to fade as the car drove smoothly through the city, and the neighbourhoods and streets became slowly more familiar. Anywhere, Kate prayed, anywhere but the Tangiers. The Sandy Shores would be better, even. The crowded, intimate atmosphere of the underground bar would be a lot to take, even if no-one was there. Unfortunately, God was not listening, and Michael stopped the car right outside, jumping out and gallantly opening her door. The smell of the place hit her as Kate descended the stairs, and made her hesitate. In the pit of her stomach, her knew this was a bad idea. As they reached the floor, Michael placed his hand on the small of her back, guiding her gently through the crowd. The steady warmth of him reassuring as she scanned for once-known faces. They reached the bar, and ordered soda, the barman smiling broadly at her as he served. Kate kept her gaze firmly on the bottles behind the bar, afraid to turn around and see the stage, the band, the piano – all the trappings of her former happiness.

"It's alright Marion," Michael said in her ear. "There's no sin in music. Not for god-fearing folk. Let's enjoy this, eh? Enjoy our youth, and all that?" His smile was kind, reassuring and excited, and Kate felt her own lips tug upwards in sympathetic response. Turning around, she saw the band setting up, and any fledgling belief that the night would go without hitch evaporated into thin air. It was Leon's band, and there, right in front of the stage, were Gladys, Carol and Betty. Gladys and Betty were laughing, joking, at ease with one another and their surroundings. Carol meanwhile, looked out of place, stiff and awkward. She looks like I feel, thought Kate.

Michael too was scanning the bar. "Anyone you know?" he asked, and Kate nodded mutely. She was about to speak, to explain that this had been a favourite haunt, when she noticed, by the stage, Carol tugging and pulling on Gladys' sleeve, whispering in her ear and pointing. Gladys looked in her direction, caught her gaze, and her smile froze and fell, the look on her face decidedly unfriendly. She must have stopped talking, for Betty too turned to follow her line of sight, and her eyes locked on Kate's, her mouth falling open. They stayed like that, staring at each other, unblinking, for several long moments. Then Michael spoke, breaking Kate's attention, and she felt her heart beating again, painfully hard and fast, and wondered when it stopped. She began to move forward, towards Betty, also advancing, pushing forward through the press of people. They stopped, inches apart, eyes still fastened on the other, Kate's face flushing. Then Betty, aware of their surroundings and the last time they spoke, dropped her gaze, and scuffed her toe along the floor, hands disappearing into her pockets.

"Hullo," she said, glancing back to Kate, and paused, uncertain what to say or do. Kate meant to speak, but instead found herself pulling the other woman towards her, and holding her tight, the corners of the folded letter pressing sharply into her breast. The feel and smell of Betty, unchanged in their time apart, made everything suddenly real and immediate. This wasn't a dream, imagining, or apologetic fantasy. She pulled back to see Betty's face again. "I missed you," Betty said, more confident now, her smile spreading slowly across her face. Kate caught her hand moving to trace the lines of her lips, her brow, to brush her hair back behind her ear. I missed you too, Kate wanted to say. You're my best friend, and I missed you, like a hole in my heart.

"I wondered where you'd gone," said Michael's voice over her shoulder. Kate dropped Betty's hands and stood back, no longer willing to look her in the eye, guilty somehow. "Then I saw you over here, having a reunion."

"Michael, this is Betty. Betty, Michael." Betty put her hand out for Michael to take, and wrung it, up-down. Kate knew that her fiancé had made the connection with the day, months before, when she'd hidden from Betty in the street, too embarrassed to speak. As her fiancé and Betty spoke, Kate watched Betty carefully. Her face, although she tried to hide it with jokes and sarcasm, was hurt as glanced between the couple, the pain still raw and apparent, just underneath the surface.

The façade of polite conversation was broken by the arrival of Gladys and Carol, followed shortly by Matthew, Gladys' smile firmly back in place. As she introduced the newcomers, Kate kept glancing at back at Betty, feeling drunk and out of control, giddy despite the soda. As the band struck up a dancing tune, and Matthew whirled Carol out onto the dance floor, Kate excused herself and headed directly for the ladies' room. Leaning on the sink, she stared at herself in the mirror. Get a grip, she thought, or this will end in tears, again. Her meditations were soon interrupted by Gladys, who made no pretence of using the facilities, but leant her hip on the wall, facing Kate, arms crossed, face set in a frown.

"Don't hurt her again," she said, and the strength and conviction in her voice surprised Kate. "Don't come back, and let her fall in love again, only to have to watch you be happy with someone else." Kate spluttered with surprise.

"I won't be – I mean, I wouldn't. We're only here for the weekend." She spread her hands in front of her, placating. Gladys, seemingly satisfied, turned to the mirror to touch up her makeup.

"She looked for you, you know, after you left. All over the country. Heartbroken, but she still had to make sure you were alright." Gladys shook her head, patting down her lipstick with a handkerchief. "Did you get the letter?" Kate nodded, and on impulse, not thinking how strange it must look, knowing she could trust Gladys, pulled the creased and faded pages from their resting spot, and held them out. Gladys' eyebrows rose as she took the pages, clearly wondering why they were stored in the front of Kate's dress. She handed them back, silently, and watched as Kate put them safely away.

"You didn't write it, did you?" Kate asked. Gladys' answer was cut off by Michael calling through the door, but Kate already knew the answer.

"Are you ladies coming out?" he called, "You're missing all the dancing." On the dancefloor, Kate and Betty stood side by side, unspeaking, as Michael went back to the bar. Leon, on stage, spotted Kate and waved. Kate wanted to speak, to tell Betty how sorry she was, and always had been, how much the letter had meant, still meant, and all the other things in between. A lifetime would not be enough, Kate thought, to say everything I want to tell you. She reached out, abruptly, and pressed Betty's hand.

"I read your letter," she said, tones low and urgent. "It meant a lot. Will you write to me again? But as you this time." Betty flushed, and drew her hand away, eyes casting around for signs of the suspicious looks and sneering, pointing laughs that had dogged her since her too loud hallway declaration of love. She swallowed and at looked away, at Gladys entertaining another airman on the dancefloor. She nodded, and Kate wanted to throw her arms around her, to hold her close again, happy to have regained a very dear friend. But Gladys' warning still rang in her mind, and she settled for a smile.

In the car, on the way back, Kate stayed quiet, happily musing over the evening in her head. Michael and Matthew sat in the front, talking happily about the band and the bar.

"Do you know how I could contact Carol again?" Matthew said, looking at Kate through the rearview mirror. "She seems like a really swell girl." Kate shook her head – Carol had never really been part of their group, she was Gladys' friend, on the outskirts.

"No," she said. "And I don't know where Gladys lives these days, either. I guess you could go through Betty at the boarding house, but the factory would probably be better." Matthew smiled, but Michael was not.

"That Betty," he started, "she's the one you hid from." Kate nodded, not wanting to have to explain herself over Betty, but knowing that she would have to. Or at least, that she would have to provide a credible explanation, even if it was not totally true. "I thought you fell out, couldn't stand the sight of each. Then next thing I know, you're practically hanging off her neck!" Kate shrugged, knowing her behavior had been odd.

"Our falling out was silly, a misunderstanding. That's all. I've missed her, and I didn't want to be angry anymore." She leant forward, and squeezed Michael's shoulder. "Not when I have so many things to be happy about." Michael's hand came up to hers, and held her hand in place, awkwardly, as his cousin drove them home.

"Your friends are darn pretty," said Matthew, as the three of them stood in Michael's grandmother's kitchen, having one last glass of water before bed. "It's a shame the blonde one's a clear invert." Kate's eyes flicked to his face, angry and protective of her friend.

"Don't call her that!" she snapped, stepping forward. Matthew raised his hands in apology, nodded to his cousin, and left the room. Kate watched him go, eyes boring a hole in his back. Once he was out of sight, Kate turned back to her fiancé.

"You can't attack Matthew like that," said Michael, taken aback by the force of Kate's anger, "After all, it's what she is. I watched her, as she watched you. And every other woman in that bar. He gaze was worse than the men's. It's no sin to call an invert an invert, although it is one to be one."

"Don't call her that!" Kate repeated. "She was a good friend to me, when I had none. And what does it matter to you, if she is? You don't need every woman in the world to want you, you've got me." Kate closed her eyes, looked down at the floor, and took a deep breath, calming herself. "You have me, Michael. And that's all that should matter."

They paused at the top of the stairs to say goodnight, but before Kate could speak Michael had leant forward and covered her mouth with a kiss. It was unexpected but not unpleasant„ Michael's mouth tasting softly of whiskey, and Kate returned the kiss gently. They pulled apart, and Michael ran a hand through his hair. "Do you love me, Marion?" he asked, and his voice wavered, uncertain. Kate raised her hand to his face, and smoothed her fiancé's cheek.

"Of course I do," she said, raising herself on her toes to place another more chaste kiss on his cheek. "You know I do. Goodnight, Michael." That night she dreamt of the factory, of the rhythm and swing of the shift work, the camaraderie and companionship of the other girls, and woke early, an ache in her heart.

She did not have to wait long for the first of Betty's letter to arrive, full of inconsequential chat and news, friendly and light. It made no mention of their previous communication, and, as hard as Kate searched the confident pen strokes, she could find no more hidden messages. This was just as it appeared, a letter from a distant friend, and somehow, although this is what Kate had hoped would arrive, she found herself disappointed. She replied, this time, in the same vein, filling the blank spaces of her notepaper with daily life. Once a week the letters came, and once a week Kate replied. She avoided, as did Betty, the one topic that any normal bride-to-be might mention most – the preparations for her upcoming wedding. She kept the letters in a small tin under her bed, and in time grew brave enough to store the original letter there also, hidden, slipped in amongst the more recent letters, away from prying eyes.

The night before her wedding, at Michael's parents' house, Kate couldn't sleep. Try as she might, she lay in the hard bed, awake and uncomfortable, thoughts of the coming day flowing restlessly through her mind. Eventually, she had had enough, and sat up, turning on the bedside lamp, and tried to read. But the book could hold her no better than sleep could, and she put in down, frustrated. Her eyes strayed to her bag, and the writing paper she knew it contained. Turning back the covers, Kate got up, retrieved the paper and her pen, and sat down at the dressing table to write. She poured out her thoughts onto the paper, feeling that this was her last chance as a free woman to say what she had always wanted.

She finished the letter, and reread it slowly, checking it said what it needed to. At the end, by where she had signed her name, she pressed a kiss lightly to the paper, and imagined that, in the soft light, her lips left a lasting impression. Along the corridor, Kate heard the sounds of someone going to the bathroom. She paused silent, hoping that the light under her door would go unnoticed, and she undisturbed. The footsteps padded back along the corridor, and stopped outside her door, the handle turning and the door opening inwards. Michael stood in the doorframe, blinking at the sudden light.

"What on earth are you doing Marion?" he asked. He rubbed sleep from his eyes, and pulled his nightgown closer around him. "It's four o'clock in the morning. On our wedding day."

Kate swallowed, and gestured carelessly at the paper in front of her. If he thought it meant nothing, perhaps he would leave the subject be. "Writing to Betty," she said, "telling her about my wedding plans."

"You know I don't like you writing to her," he said. "And why write now, at this time in the morning?"

"She's my best friend!" Kate said, hands going to cover the words she had written. Michael eyed the move suspiciously, stood up straighter, and began to walk across the room towards her desk.

"And I'm your husband" he said, far louder than was appropriate for 4 o'clock in the morning. He pulled the pages out from under Kate's hands, and despite her protests, began to read the letter aloud.

_Dear Betty,_

_It's three in the morning, and today is my wedding day. We're getting married in Michael's church, at three in the afternoon. My father is conducting the ceremony for us, and we will have a small reception afterwards too. In just over twelve hours, I will be Mrs Marion Taylor. It somehow doesn't feel real, like a story in a book, rather than something that's actually going to happen to me. My third identity, in as many years._

_Betty, I don't think that Marion Taylor can write to you. I don't think it would be fair, to you, or to my husband. Here's the thing, you see. Kate Andrews will always love you, will always regret the things she said, and the way she let you go. But Marion has other responsibilities now, has made her promises, and I could not live with myself, were I to break them._

_As Kate, my heart is yours, regardless of the sin, and always has been, right from that first day, when you opened the door. I just didn't know it in time. I was afraid of what I felt, of how much I felt, and how obviously you felt the same. After I left, and became Marion again, I had work to convince myself I could manage without you. And I did. Successfully, for a while. I was happy, with myself, with Michael. But then, I saw you in the Tangiers and held you close once more, and all my work came undone._

_I can't write to you, loving you like this, when I'm married to someone else. It's the kindest thing, for you as well – you can move on, and find someone new, if you haven't already, someone who can make you happy. Gladys told me not to hurt you again, and I think I probably have. I never meant to. Please forgive me._

_I will miss you._

_All my love,_

_Kate._

A long stretch of silence followed the end of Michael's reading. Kate sat stiff and rigid the chair, watching as Michael stood, still staring at the letter. He did not speak for a long time, and then his hand, clutching the letter, fell slowly to his side and he looked up at Kate. "Goodnight, Marion," he said, and turned to go.

"Wait," she called out after him, standing up from the table fast enough to knock the chair over behind her. Michael halted, but did not turn, so Kate went up to, moved round to face him. She tried to touch his arm, but he flinched, and pulled away. "Please, Michael," she said. "You were never meant to read that. You were never meant to know." He could not meet her eyes, a visible lump forming in his throat. When he spoke, his voice was thick with emotion, the words coming slowly.

"When all things are stripped away," he said, and Kate knew the passage, "three things remain." It was one that was due to be read at their wedding, in just a few hours time. "Faith, hope, and love." The sadness in his voice was heartbreaking, and his refusal to meet her eyes evidence of how badly he was hurt. "And the greatest of these, is love." He looked up at her, then, and clicked his jaw sideways. "You know Marion, I wondered. Your reaction that day in the street, and your parents', was so very odd. And then in the bar, I thought, she's never that pleased to see _me_." He moved back towards the bed, picking up the overturned chair and setting it down gently. He sighed, and sat down on her folded bedcovers. "I wondered, but I thought, she's marrying me, out of choice. I told myself I was wrong. I wanted to be wrong. I didn't want to think so badly of you." Kate sat on the bed, and took his hand in hers. Michael let her, but made no move to grip her hand in return, just sat limp and defeated on the bed, head turned to stare at the letter in his hand. "What are we going to do, Marion?" Kate held his hand more firmly, brought it to her mouth and kissed the knuckles.

"I never wanted this, you have to believe me. I tried not to, but she's the Naomi to my Ruth, the David to my Jonathon, and I can't help myself." Kate swallowed, and shook his hand till he looked at her. "We can still be happy, together," she said. He looked at her, disbelieving. "We can. I love you, too. Differently. You're a rock Michael, and without one I'm lost."

Michael shook his head, and smiled sadly. He squeezed her hand, and leant forward to replace the letter on the desk. Taking her head in both hands, he pressed a feather-light kiss to her forehead. "I'll tell our parents in the morning. Sleep well Marion." He stood and left, leaving Kate with her hand in her hands, crying, ashamed of the hurt she had caused, to all involved.

The furore Michael's breakfast announcement caused was unprecedented, and Kate was glad she was away from her father's home, where his violence and anger needed to be restrained. The families' anger and confusion and disappointment was only fuelled by both Michael and Kate's refusal to reveal the reason why. That afternoon, at three o'clock, instead of making her way to the church, Kate climbed into the front of Michael's car and he drove her, silently, all the way to the city. As they pulled up outside the old manse, with its faded familiar door, Kate looked again at her ex-fiancé. "You really are the best man I've ever known, Michael," she said, regretfully. He smiled at her, although it did not reach his eyes.

Kate did not wait long outside the door, slipping in behind a party of women returning with groceries for the week ahead. She climbed the stairs, ignoring the looks and whisperings of the women milling through the corridors. Outside the familiar room she waited, hearing voices and laughter coming from within. Gathering her courage, she knocked lightly on the doorframe, and pushed her head around the curtain. Inside the room, four women were playing card games on the bed, laughing and throwing small coins into a pile in the centre. When they saw who stood there, the three visitors looked at their host and silently left the room.

"Kate," Betty said, when they had gone. "What are you doing here? I thought you were getting married." Kate shook her head, and came into the room, stopping just short of where Betty's knees hung over the edge of the bed.

"I wrote you a letter, explaining," she said, "but Michael read it first. He's left me, let me go." The admission caused Betty's mouth to drop open, and she stood up. Kate could see fear and hope rushing across Betty's expressive face. "I couldn't marry him. Not when I'm in love with someone else." Kate smiled, and took Betty's hand, her pulse racing, face flushing. "Not when I'm madly and utterly in love with you."

The gap between their nervous lips closed gently, and there, reader my dear, is where we'll leave them. Some things deserve privacy, and this is already far too long.


End file.
